


Noncompliance

by LadyLattice



Series: 'Noncompliance' Universe [1]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Hashirama is a Delightful Idiot, M/M, Madara is Bad at Feelings, Romantic Fluff, Sassy Tobirama is Sassy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-18 23:22:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5947219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLattice/pseuds/LadyLattice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hashirama struggles with Madara's stubborn refusal to verbalize his affection for the Senju, and the Shodai Hokage in turn seeks advice from an extremely unwilling Tobirama.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Noncompliance

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! This is my first time writing for my OTP, so I’m crazy nervous about fucking it up…. Oh well. I decided on a lengthy one-shot for the first attempt, so this is a Madara-stays-in-Konoha AU, though I would like to write something multi-chapter for this pairing (let me know if you’d like that). I’m just writing this to get it off my chest… the idea has been super distracting for a while now and I can't get anything else done.
> 
> Enjoy and drop a review! Tally ho!
> 
> Rights to the Naruto franchise and all associated characters belong to Masashi Kishimoto.

 

            A contented hum rumbled low in Hashirama's chest as he stretched, eyes closed firmly against the early morning sunlight that filtered unapologetically through the thin linen shrouding the window. Finding that he had, once again, been forced from the futon and onto the tatami floor – most likely as punishment for one of the many idiosyncratic actions that he unconsciously performed as he slept – he blinked sleepily as he sat up, hair falling wildly around his shoulders.

            “You’re awake,” a steady baritone called from the far side of the room, drawing his attention to the figure seated at the low table there.

            “Morning, Madara,” Hashirama replied fondly as he studied his lover from afar, relishing the way his loosely tied yukata slipped lazily from one muscular shoulder to reveal a purple bite mark that had bloomed since their actions the night before. “Working so early?”

           Madara snorted bitterly, and tossed several strands of untamable ebony hair away from his eyes with a shake of his head. “I could not sleep for your snoring, you oaf. Besides, it is already sufficiently late for one to be starting the day, _Hokage-sama_.”

            Though the sarcastic use of his title was largely unappreciated, Hashirama disregarded the vicious quip and moved to nuzzle happily into the mess of his lover’s mane, placing a languid kiss along his nape. “I can heal this for you if you want,” he offered casually, large fingers trailing over the bruise he had inflicted during the heat of passion. Madara had scarcely seemed to mind at the time, since he had appeared equally as glad as Hashirama to fumble through their argument in a manner that did not require raised voices or fists. It had been yet another rather pointless squabble, after all; a result of Madara's blatant oversensitivity to any comment made by Tobirama that sounded even vaguely hostile.

            “You had better, since you put it there," he scolded sternly. "And don’t sit behind me. I know you’re reading over my shoulder, Senju.”

            “Would it kill you to be a little romantic in the morning?” Hashirama whined as he pulled Madara back against his chest, savoring the deceptive warmth that seemed to radiate from his body despite such an icy complexion. Madara was much like a godly visage sculpted lovingly from marble by skilled artisan hands – all battle-toned muscles and fair skin and pride – and Hashirama would gladly worship at such a deity’s feet.

            “It very well might,” Madara replied, though there was a faint suggestion of amusement in his voice. Disregarding Hashirama’s pout, he continued to scrawl pristinely aligned characters over the open scroll spread across the low table, dark gaze scarcely rising from his work.

            “More clan problems?”

            “Damn you, I said not to read over my shoulder!”

            “No, you said not to sit behind you. You only pointed out that you knew I was reading over your shoulder.”

            “And yet you continue to do both,” Madara huffed, nearly succumbing to his stubbornness yet refusing to admit defeat. “It is nothing to concern yourself with, _Hokage-sama_. Mere foolish disputes within the clan regarding land distribution. Since they are no longer occupied with war, it seems that they must alleviate their boredom at my expense.”

            “Well, it is entertaining to get you riled up.”

            Scoffing indignantly, Madara roughly dug his elbow into his lover’s ribs, quickly shooing him away. “Be gone, idiot Senju. Isn’t it about time for you to go share a breakfast of pond scum with your protozoan brother?”

            With a weary sigh, Hashirama nuzzled a kiss against Madara’s temple before rising to his feet, cursing his creaking bones under his breath. “I wish you and Tobirama would get along,” he said casually as he stretched, “you are both so much alike, whether you admit it or not. And I still don’t know what you two argued about yesterday… even though you insisted on taking it out on me.”

            “Get out.”

            “Huh?”

            “Get out!” Madara roared when he stood, whirling to face him in a flurry of black hair and livid Sharingan-clad eyes. A fierce shove had Hashirama stumbling backwards out of their shared bedroom and into the hall before the door slammed resolutely shut, the sounds of Madara’s muffled grumblings seeping into the corridor.

            Accepting that he could do little more than concede to Madara's seemingly unprompted rage, Hashirama did his best to sound as neutral and apologetic as possible, fully aware that any other course of action would result in his sleeping in the guest room for weeks. “Can I at least get a change of clo—?”

            The door slid open for but the briefest of instants, permitting a pair of pants and a shirt to flop gracelessly against his face, before banging closed once more. Glancing with amusement at the garments in his hands, Hashirama elected not to comment on how quickly Madara had accommodated his request. Surely he was determined to maintain that he simply refused to be embarrassed by the Hokage’s inability to dress himself, and that was the only reason he even bothered to assist.

            Grinning, Hashirama shook his head fomdly. “Thank you. I have a feeling that you won’t be coming by the office today?”

            “Tobirama will be there?”

            “Yes.”

            A moment of silence lingered between them, and Hashirama was certain that Madara was searching for an excuse not to attend while straining to make it abundantly clear that he was not avoiding Tobirama. 

“I have clan business to see to and cannot be expected to babysit you all the time, _Hokage-sama_ ,” Madara responded in a condescending tone, and Hashirama could practically see him folding his arms defiantly over his chest.

            “Then I’ll see you for dinner, I suppose. Maybe we could go out for some sake?” he offered gently, receiving only a snort in reply. “Okay… well, have a good day and do try to refrain from murder. I love you, Madara.”

            “Leave.”

            Dressing quickly and dragging his fingers through the length of his earthy hair, Hashirama stepped out into the village streets, which were already teeming with life despite the early hour and the mild chill of the morning. It still managed to surprise him, the way that the numerous clans whom had settled in this place seemed to adapt so quickly to the concept of peace; even though for years he had struggled to even conjure images of such a paradise in his mind. While Madara constantly took it upon himself to remind him that _paradise_ was a gross overstatement and that they should remain on guard, the way he found himself greeted warmly by each of Konohagakure’s residents equally felt far closer to it than he ever expected to experience in his lifetime. Regardless, Madara was painfully correct – as they had already discovered, courtesy of assaults from the lands of Wind and Lightning – and Hashirama had been quickly reminded that while peace was blooming in the Land of Fire, complacency was still a formidable enemy.

            “Anija,” a low voice called, startling Hashirama from his thoughts as he was confronted with a pair of scrutinizing crimson eyes and a mess of snowy hair. “You were late to breakfast, so I ate without you.”

            “Tobirama,” he managed awkwardly, shrugging in apology and scratching the back of his head with a smile, which only served to fuel his brother’s suspicion. “Sorry, Madara was in a foul humor this morning. Did you bring me anything to eat?”

            “Certainly not,” Tobirama snorted, folding his arms over his chest and falling into step, pointedly ignoring Hashirama's enthusiastic pout. “If you were hungry, you should have gotten there on time.”

           Hashirama’s shoulders sagged under the weight of his disappointment and he scuffed his feet over the trodden clay streets, tossing dejected glances to his brother as they walked.

“I couldn’t help it, you know. He was livid. Threw an absolute fit. And I don’t even know what I did wrong! At least not this time…” he lamented pitifully with a morose sigh. “When I said, ‘Have a good day, I love you’ he kicked me out."

           Tobirama’s eye twitched at the sentiment, and irked, he waved the words away as if they were poisoned smoke. “I will buy you breakfast if you will _please_ stop openly discussing your deviant lifestyle on the streets.”

            “Come now, otouto,” Hashirama chimed with a grin, abruptly refreshed by the prospect of food courtesy of his brother’s wallet, “everyone knows that Madara and I have been living together. You seem to be the only one who doesn’t accept it.”

            “No,” Tobirama scolded with narrowed eyes, giving a shallow bow to the owner of the tea shop he frequented as they ducked inside, “the village’s residents are simply glad that the monster is on a short leash. _How_ he ended up on said leash is none of their concern. And I can assure you that they do not care to know, just as I wish I did not.” 

Tobirama shuddered at the recollection of numerous conversations where a highly intoxicated and broken-hearted Hashirama had conveyed his… exploits… with the Sharingan-wielding demon to his deeply disturbed younger brother and heir. Such knowledge should never be forced upon another, he had promptly concluded.

            “Please don’t call him a monster. And you know damn well that I keep Madara close because I love him, not because of obligation.”

            “Anija! Don’t say such inappropriate things in public,” Tobirama scolded, lowering his voice and glancing cautiously over his shoulder. He straightened himself sternly when the shop-owner’s wife, a middle-aged Sarutobi woman with a round figure and kind eyes, waddled over to place two cups of tea on the table with a knowing grin.

            “Do not concern yourself, Hokage-sama,” she began, forcefully inserting herself into their conversation as she tucked her serving tray under her arm, “everyone knows about your affection for Madara-sama, and some even know how he feels about you. Not to suggest that Tobirama-kun is incorrect in his assessment. As long as he doesn’t cause any trouble, no one really cares what you do with him.”

            Sputtering awkwardly against his teacup, Tobirama frowned at the woman fiercely, crimson gaze narrowing with irritation. “Hika-san, it seems that eavesdropping is still your hobby of choice.”

            “Naturally,” she chuckled teasingly as she turned to shuffle back into the kitchen, “it keeps the days interesting. I’ll have rice and miso ready for you in a moment, Hokage-sama.”

            “Lovely woman.”

            “Wretched woman,” Tobirama grumbled simultaneously, returning his focus to his tea and the issue at hand. “No matter, it appears tha—”

            “What does she mean?” Hashirama brusquely interrupted, leaning into his brother’s space as if discussing state secrets. “People know how he feels about me? I don’t even know how Madara feels about me! I tell him how much I love him all the time, but he’s never said it back. He’s never even said that he _likes_ me.”

            Disgusted with Hashirama’s pitiful, lovelorn ramblings, Tobirama mumbled angrily into his tea, before clearing his throat and speaking sternly. “Well, _I_ don’t even like you right now. But still… despite how much I absolutely detest getting involved in your dealings with the Uchiha, I will say this: perhaps his reluctance is due to your propensity to tell anyone that you hold even the slightest affection for that you _love_ them. It goes beyond some strange habit you can’t kick and dangerously near the realm of becoming a condition – explainable by modern science or otherwise. It is humiliating and unnerving and I honestly must say that for once I can understand his feelings, regarding this matter and this matter alone.”

            “He’s right, Hokage-sama,” Hika chimed as she returned with surprising stealth, calmly placing steaming bowls of rice and miso before Hashirama, who eyed them greedily. “Some people have trouble saying those words, but it doesn’t mean that they don’t feel the emotion; they just express it in a different way. Tobirama-kun for example, with his constant worrying and nagging.”

            “I do not nag,” he retorted angrily with a frown, flustered and endearingly childish as he shrank into the fur collar draped over his shoulders. “And why am I Tobirama- _kun_ while the Uchiha is Madara- _sama_ , Hika- _san_?”

            Hika disregarded his outburst entirely and returned her attention to Hashirama, folding her arms under her ample chest with a huff. “Madara- _sama_ ,” she began, tossing a pointed glare at Tobirama, “is constantly berating you about something or other. Whenever you wear too few layers when it’s cold out, or when you have too much fun drinking sake and he has to retrieve you before you embarrass yourself. For him, it’s the same as saying it out loud. If he didn’t care about you, I’m sure he’d happily let you booze yourself into oblivion and gamble all your money away.”

            Blushing furiously with humiliation at being so bluntly called out, Hashirama lowered his earthy gaze to focus on his rice, only glancing up when he heard her shuffling back into the kitchen. “So honest…” he pouted, dismayed, and poked absently at his meal with his chopsticks.

            “Stop licking your wounded ego, anija. At least now I can rightfully tally four people in this village who will put you in your place,” Tobirama huffed smugly, cradling his teacup and very deliberately ignoring the frown in his brother’s dark eyes.

            “Four?”

            “Myself, Tōka, Hika-san, and the Uchiha,” he recited casually. “He can be useful on occasion. For that purpose, at least.”

            Following several long moments of silence, Tobirama began to grow suspicious, and recoiled upon glancing up to notice the profoundly touched and gleeful expression on Hashirma's face. Yet before he could speak, Hashirama cooed happily, folding his brawny hands in his lap. “You finally complemented Madara.”

            “What?!” Tobirama sputtered unattractively, slamming his tea down on the table and coughing into his fist. “I most certainly did not! I merely acknowledged his intermittent convenience and quality as an opponent. His brother was the same way during life.”

            “You _liked_ Izuna?!”

            “Where are you getting these deranged ideas? Have you gone rabid? I most certainly am not you, anija – I am perfectly capable of recognizing someone as being a worthy adversary without wanting to… _copulate_ with them,” he hissed in return, voice nearly tumbling into silence as he concluded his brief, reproachful rant. “Please finish your breakfast and stop wasting time. There is work to be done.”

            Hashirama frowned emphatically, obediently concluding his meal before trudging to Hokage Tower as if making the trek to the gallows. The day passed uneventfully, for which Tobirama was immensely grateful, and following several rather childish bouts of absently shuffling papers about on his desk, Hashirama managed to work rather productively.

Still, Madara’s absence did not go unnoticed. With his lurking presence lounging against the edge of the Hokage’s desk conspicuously lacking, Hashirama found the room rather dull and empty. They often sat in silence, sharing brief quips or small conversations of little consequence when they did take reprieve from their obligations, but now with the option of such diversion absent entirely, the quiet lacked its usual easy familiarity. Little fractures in the dutiful hush – such as Madara’s soft sighs of irritation, or the way he often tapped his fingers against the desktop as he mentally composed a scroll – which would largely go unnoticed by most, brought such life to Hashirama's days that he felt overwhelmed by solemn loneliness when they were gone. Regardless of the frequency of which he experienced these sensations – as Madara frequently declared himself the only shinobi suitable for certain missions and would depart often for indeterminable amounts of time – they never quite grew familiar enough to disregard entirely. And the separation always made him nervous, though he was aware that Madara would interpret his concern as nothing less than an insult against his skill and ability to survive on his own. Even these scoldings, as inevitable as they often were, would ever be more pleasant than the silence that all too willingly took their place.

“Anija,” Tobirama called as he permitted himself entrance to the silent office without knocking. “Whatever papers you have left on your desk are all for today.”

Hashirama glanced up distantly, drawn from his thoughts as if slowly awakening from a disorienting dream, to find the lighting to have grown quite dim, impending night seeping into the darkened corners of the space. “Thank you. Hey, Tobirama,” he called after his brother, earning a questioning crimson glare in response, “what did you and Madara argue about yesterday?”

“That is none of your concern.”

“It most certainly is, considering I have to deal with him when I go home. Come on, otouto, don’t be difficult. Just tell me,” he complained, folding his hands atop the desk in an oddly diplomatic manner.

Sighing heavily, Tobirama turned to address him, dragging his fingers roughly through his mess of snowy hair before deigning to speak. “Our discussion was reminiscent of the one you and I had this morning.”

“What?”

“I attempted to convince him to discuss his feelings more openly with you, in hopes that I would earn some respite from your constant griping about the subject,” he informed clinically, as if his reasoning was so self-explanatory that it instantly declared his innocence, folding his arms over his chest in a mild expression of defiance. “Clearly I was not convincing enough in my argument.”

Hashirama appeared quite rattled for several moments, until an odd menagerie of emotions swept over his features, skewing them in a peculiar way. “I can’t believe you! Actually, I can completely believe that you’d do such a thing. No wonder Madara was so flustered last night. He was quite… voracious.”

Frowning with disgust at the implication of his brother attempting to tame a particularly insatiable Uchiha, Tobirama shifted to leave, calling over his shoulder. “Well, that isn’t my fault. Just deal with him, would you?”

“How?”

“I am not partial to any method, and I do not really care what you do. But whatever it may be, anija, I will warn you now: I refuse to hear about your _escapades_ tomorrow,” Tobirama asserted in a rather threatening tone, expression stern and dark as he ghosted from the office.

Hashirama stared after him for a long instant, wallowing in the solemn emptiness left in the wake of his brother’s departure, before collecting his things and abandoning Hokage Tower for the evening. The arrival of nightfall brought with it a rather distinct chill – the sensation of approaching winter – and he sank into his robes with a shiver, noting to himself that it was the time of season to finally pull down the heaviest blankets for Madara. It would be the third year in which he would perform the routine, simple as it seemed to anyone else. But for Hashirama, that simple monotony held more value than any material wealth, as each moment passed with Madara by his side managed to shackle his heart more firmly to that stubborn, beautifully prideful man. Hashirama was once plagued by a foul ache in his chest, lurking between his ribs, when he was ruthlessly taunted by the conception that Madara would ever be beyond his reach. It lingered for years, nearly shattering his very being at the instant when Madara, soundly defeated and badly wounded, closed a powerful hand around Hashirama’s wrist just before he managed to fulfill his crass ultimatum. The touch was demanding yet oddly gentle, as if backing the pair of them from a ledge together, and it was nearly two years until Hashirama was permitted to feel that grasp again, needy but sweet and soft.

When their bodies at last became one, it had started as a brawl – the culmination of all of Madara’s discontents, his despair and rage and resentment, his desire to leave the village they had built together and disregard it as a failed experiment by two men who still wished to be boys. And all the time that passed since then had yet to reveal why Hashirama had felt so compelled to kiss away the ribbon of blood that trailed languidly from the edges of Madara’s lips, though he would always maintain that it was the most rewarding mistake of his life. Taming the beast was impossibly more difficult than he could have imagined, leaving him more scarred and bitten and bruised than the fight that started it all. Yet when Madara at last succumbed, light sighs ghosting over tanned skin and ebony hair splayed wildly over the floor, his grip grew as tender as it had been some years ago. Hashirama had struggled to battle away the tears that gnawed relentlessly at the back of his eyes, his heart steeped in the nostalgia of the sensation and the complete adoration he held for the man beneath him – and the ache in his chest returned more like an ember than a shard of glass, not with longing, but with fulfillment and joy.

With love.

He was jostled from his reminiscence by nearing proximity of his favorite chakra, though it felt significantly more disgruntled than usual as it flared spontaneously, likely as a warning to those who came too near. Hashirama sighed to himself with what was likely more vigor than necessary and broke into a trot, waving warmly at passersby as he hunted down the source of the power that was very possibly causing the citizens on the streets to retreat indoors as a precaution.

“Hashirama!”

Madara’s voice, clearly displeased with something, snatched his attention as soon as that mess of black hair came stomping into view. “I was just coming to find you!” he called, glad that Madara’s chakra had retreated to a more reasonable level of suppression for walking about in public.

“Buy me dinner,” came the blunt reply as Madara strode straight past him, scarcely offering a glance of acknowledgement, and into the restaurant that served his favorite inarizushi – a complement that the shop’s chef was likely highly honored and highly terrified to hold.

“Yes, yes,” Hashirama murmured with an easy smile as he obediently followed, gesturing to a waitress for sake before tracking Madara to a secluded table at the far corner of the dining room. The drinks and food arrived as swiftly as they had been ordered, the young woman serving the pair offering warm smiles to the Hokage and little more than a nervous glance to the man sitting stoically across from him, a frown etched heavily into his features. 

“So,” Hashirama began languidly, sipping contently at the ceramic cup perched atop his tanned fingers, “how was your day? Clan matters smoothed over?”

“Yes.”

“And how many times did you let your chakra flare at innocent bystanders?”

“That is none of your concern.”

A mildly amused grin pulled at Hashirama’s eyes as he watched Madara tuck another piece of fried tofu between his lips, expression softening for a moment as he ate, carefully plucking the cabbage from his pickled vegetables with his chopsticks. 

“Several times then,” he concluded smugly, earning a glare in return but disregarding it entirely. That sharp, threatening gaze had lost a fair amount of its potency over the years, in Hashirama's opinion, at least – but as Tobirama often generously pointed out, he was likely just blinded by his absurd adoration for the man and had become too accustomed to the gesture. “But considering you’re willing to share a meal with me, I’d venture to guess you aren’t as angry as you were this morning. Am I right?”

Madara simply huffed and set his plate aside, pouring himself a small amount of sake, an action which urged Hashirama to arch a brow curiously. “What are you staring at?” Madara spat bitterly when he met Hashirama’s earthy gaze, “I can damn well drink if I wish.”

“You most certainly can,” he reassured with a patient smile, much like a parent waiting for their child to conclude a tantrum. His lover tossed the contents of the cup down his throat with a stubborn swallow, and Hashirama fought away a chuckle at the mild wrinkling of Madara’s nose as the flavor of alcohol lingered on his tongue. He did not drink often – certainly not as often as Hashirama himself did – but it never failed to be amusing. “Another?”

Madara wordlessly extended his empty cup in response, prompting Hashirama to lean over the table slightly to refill it, his larger hand gently caressing Madara’s as he held the cup steady, ceramic clinking lightly as it was flooded with sake once more. He permitted his fingers to linger for a moment, touch a bit too tender to go unnoticed by their fellow diners, until Madara jerked his hand away, potent rice wine sloshing over the cup’s edge before slipping between his lips.

“Don’t spill,” Hashirama scolded gently, his gaze following the other man’s every elegant movement. “It’s wasteful.”

“You’re the one paying for it, so why should I care?” Madara fussed as he threw back another drink, a slight tinge of drunkenness already smearing a dusting of pink over his ivory cheeks. “Plus, I actually enjoy it; while you suck it down like water only to piss it out, damned useless Senju.”

With a feigned pout Hashirama moved to refill his own cup, sighing with disappointment upon the discovery that Madara had nearly drained the bottle entirely, leaving him with scarcely a few drops to savor. Rummaging through his wallet, he placed sufficient payment on the tabletop before collecting Madara – who seemed immensely displeased with the development – and ushering him from the establishment with assurances that there was sake at home. Madara’s blatant inability to consume any amount of alcohol without losing his bearings never failed to amuse him, who often took the opportunity to walk closer than was strictly necessary despite being in a public setting, hand on a slender but muscled waist. Though it would take a miracle for one of the village’s citizens to muster the courage to speak to either of the founders the regarding the matter. Not with the way Madara’s brows furrowed deeply in an apparent scowl, Sharingan activated; though in truth it was merely a weak attempt at clearing his vision of the blurriness brought on by just a few cups of sake. Hashirama could never suppress the enjoyment he held at the knowledge that Madara would always look his most fearsome not in battle, but while hopelessly drunk.

The pair shuffled home, scarcely exchanging a word in the chilliness of the late autumn evening, kicking off their shoes lazily and settling on the rōka, staring into the darkened courtyard. Hashirama hummed absently to himself as he shuffled off to collect more sake from the kitchen, ever aware of the heavy gaze upon him as he sat back down on the porch. Snatching the bottle away, Madara drizzled a bit of sake into the browning grass below before taking a long sip for himself, forgoing the cups that Hashirama had brought entirely. 

“For Izuna,” he clarified in response to Hashirama's befuddled glance, tone soft and solemn, yet fond.

“Ah, of course,” he replied with a gentle smile, hoping that the conversation he was about to begin would not backfire completely. “Speaking of Izuna, I actually had a conversation with Tobirama today about how much he admired your brother… about how fond he was of him,” he added softly, despite stretching the truth a bit farther than was likely wise.

Madara snorted as he took another pull from the bottle, the small trickle of sake that escaped from the corner of his lips quickly scrubbed away with the back of his hand. “What a pleasant sentiment coming from the man who _killed_ him,” he spat sarcastically, though his voice lacked a significant degree of its usual bite.

“It was war. Killing was unfortunate, but necessary… you and I both know that too well,” Hashirama hummed, sliding nearer until he could nuzzle an easy kiss behind Madara's ear, in the mess of that mane of ebony hair. Hashirama was always fond of hus scent – the smoky aroma of lingering katon jutsu that blended flawlessly with something vaguely floral and sweet, gardenia, perhaps – and he inhaled deeply, savoring the familiar warmth that the fragrance always bathed over his heart. Kissing along a pale jaw, he purred in a listless hum, “You smell nice.”

“Don’t say strange things, pervert.”

“Hey, Madara… I love you.”

“I _just_ told you not to say strange things. Are you deaf or stupid?”

Frustration finally bubbling to the surface after a full day of ruminating on the morning's conversation with Tobirama, he pursed his lips and furrowed his brow, pulling back to stare at Madara intently. “Why can’t you say it back? After everything we’ve been through together, after all these years – even sharing a home in the village _we_ built – why can’t you say it even _once_? What are you afraid of?”

“ _Afraid_? Why would I possibly be _afraid_ , Senju?” Madara hissed in reply, a feral, angry glint glowing in Sharingan-red eyes.

“I think you’re afraid of losing what you care about… as if acknowledging that it’s important will make it disappear.”

“You think you’re so wise, Hashirama, spouting foolish prose like that.”

“But I’m right!” he said a bit too loudly, quickly taking advantage of Madara’s silence to lean close, caressing large, tanned palms over porcelain cheeks with tender touches. “We don’t lose the things we love because we say that we love them, Madara; we lose them because this world is cruel. With this village and this peace we’ve fought so hard for, we are managing to counter some of that cruelty with light.”

He paused for a moment to trace his thumb over the thin, frowning lips that he revered so much, features softening as he continued. “It’s not your fault that you’ve lost the things you loved so much… you aren’t some beacon of ill providence, no matter how fiercely you think otherwise. I pray every day that you will come to see that, because you deserve some relief – and if my loving you can help in the slightest, then I will never give up on that, even if you one day decide to leave me behind. But if that day were to come and I was left with the knowledge that I never confessed how much you mean to me, then the ache of losing you would surely be even worse than any wound… painful enough to cleave my heart in two. For as dearly as I adore everything about you, Uchiha Madara, I still refuse to subject myself to that risk. If I broke from that, nothing in this world could put me back together. That’s why, until words can no longer leave my body, I will say ‘I love you’, whether you want me to or not.”

Only the mild rustle of the breeze through changing leaves broke the hush for several long seconds, fickle shadows deepening the creases beneath Madara’s eyes in a way that made him look weary, worn.

“Damn you,” he muttered after a while, lowering his gaze and permitting a curtain of inky hair to shroud his features. “Should I be flattered or disgusted? Given the amount of sentiment you poured into that speech, I’m inclined to the latter.”

Hashirama huffed a soft laugh, eternally grateful that Madara's rigidly abrasive personality was considerably more pliable under the influence of alcohol. “Sorry, but that was an awful response after I showed my guts. Still… do you at least understand? I don’t want you to resent me for forcing you to say it if they’re empty words, but hearing it out loud means a lot to me.”

“Empty words?” Madara questioned with his usual sass. “Are you stupid?”

“Well….”

“They weigh too much. As fleeting as words are, those three are as imposing as mountains. You must be the one who doesn’t understand, spouting them so easily.”

Hashirama recoiled for a moment, stunned that Madara would be so direct regarding an issue that he had skillfully evaded for years, much to his dismay. True, Hashirama confessed his fondness for everyone as if spilling cheap sake on a summer’s night, freely and unabated, and to some it made the words seem lesser, great in supply and lacking in verity. But with Madara, the utterance of his affection would certainly be swollen with meaning and intention, heavy with tangibility like the rocks they used to skip across the river as children. In such context, his reluctance seemed far more understandable, yet also so sad; as if he was coiled in some miserable cocoon of resentment and despair and instinctual self-preservation. And Hashirama could do little to combat the urge to crack open that shell – to set him free.

“You make them easy for me to say,” he hummed, placing gentle kisses along the edges of Madara’s lips and against the flustered creases in his brow. “Just let me know somehow… let me know that you still want to be with me.”

Madara scoffed when he batted Hashirama away, folding his arms in his sleeves and straightening his spine. “Well, I haven’t left you yet, idiot Senju, so that must be worth something. But if that’s not enough, then… give me that,” he barked with a frown.

“What?”

“That trinket around your neck,” he ordered, gesturing to the pale green stone resting against Hashirama’s chest with a bored expression. “That necklace, give it here.”

“You know this isn’t just a trinket, Madara,” he scolded in reply, clutching the gem protectively in his fist.

“Once it no longer has your chakra to feed off of, it pretty much is. Just give it, damn you. If you really need to suppress one of the bijū so badly, I’ll give it back or use my Sharingan,” Madara informed dryly as he reached to unfasten the jewel’s delicate chain, curling lithe fingers gently into the earthy hair at Hashirama's nape. An easy breeze tossed long strands of Madara’s hair into his eyes as he claimed the necklace as his own, placing it around his own neck and settling it squarely in the center of his chest. He admired it for a long moment, pleased with the way the stone’s unique variety of jade looked against his porcelain skin, before confronting Hashirama’s questioning gaze with a stern expression.

“There,” he stated harshly, causing Hashirama to recoil at the brazen tone. “Now you can keep spouting your nonsense about how much you care and not pester me to do the same. As long as I’m wearing this, I’ll stay by your side. As long as this is hanging around my neck, you don’t have to question how I feel.”

A flush of pink embarrassment flooded pale cheeks as the Hokage gawked at him mercilessly, rampant emotion glinting in his damp, earthen brown gaze. “Really?” he asked, a stupid grin unzipping across his face as he scrubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “You really mean that?”

“Yes.”

“Madara!” he wailed when he latched his burly arms around Madara's shoulders, sending them both tumbling to the cool wood of the rōka below in a flurry of robes and long hair and bitter curses. “I love you!”

“Get off of me, you fool!”

“I’ll make sure you’ll never take it off!”

“Dammit, Hashirama!” Madara bit out, only weakly struggling against the warm weight of the man above him. “You’re spilling sake everywhere! If you don’t get off me, I swear I’ll burn this house down!”

“You wouldn’t burn _our_ house down!”

“Try me.”

Leaning up on his forearms from nuzzling happily into Madara's collar, Hashirama stole a quick kiss, his gaze glazing over with longing and adoration as he ducked down for another, gently coaxing pale lips to respond. Reluctantly Madara complied, nipping lightly at the pressure of the kiss and catching Hashirama’s lower lip between his teeth, biting softly as punishment for his enthusiasm. Hashirama sighed dazedly – much to Madara’s disappointment – savoring the flavor of liquor and char from katon jutsu, and pulled back to stare at his lover, brushing inky hair away from coal black eyes.

“I really do love you,” he mumbled, content.

“So you say,” Madara huffed, leaning his cheek into the brawny caress of a tanned palm, pleased with the warmth of the touch. Humming low in his chest, dark eyes fell shut – Sharingan long abandoned in the comfort of present company – as he mumbled absently. “It’s getting colder. We need to take down the heavy winter blankets soon.”

“Yes," Hashirama chuckled, “I know.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> *Notes on Sake*
> 
> Sakazuki are the flat, saucer-like sake cups, while ochoko (sometimes just called choko, without the o- honorific) are more cylindrical like shot glasses. Though I prefer the aesthetic of sakazuki more, I must confess that ochoko are easier to drink from once you start getting tipsy (lol). But here I implied that the restaurant is using sakazuki, hence the why I said the cup was “perched” on Hashirama’s fingers. Tokkuri is the generic name for a ceramic sake flask, though there’s dozens of more specific style types. The kind you’ve seen in anime are most likely in the rakyou (bizen), shigaraki (tsuru-kubi), or rosoku styles, especially considering the popularity of the rosoku-type tokkuri during the Edo period.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the liquor lesson and tipsy Madara! He was fun to write….
> 
> Meadie out.


End file.
